


Magic Underground

by UltraUgo



Series: Magic and Mayhem [1]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Shadowrun Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Moving Tattoo(s), Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltraUgo/pseuds/UltraUgo
Summary: Magic never died. It only lay dormant, sleeping until history’s next great epoch. Now, magic has returned to the world, right alongside the technological advancements of the twenty-first century. There’s no better place to watch the symbiotic relationship between the two play out than in New York City, where you’ll find practitioners of old, old magic and orks with cybernetic implants sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the subway. While trying to start his own business, Judal finds himself thrust into a world of techno-magical warfare. Welcome to the Metacene.





	Magic Underground

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is a standalone piece submitted for Tumblr’s 2017 Magi BigBang. It’s part of a larger series that I will continue to publish in the coming months. Please enjoy this small, slightly underwhelming glimpse into the world of Magic & Mayhem! 
> 
> Thank you to dragonofeternal for signing up as the artist for this piece, and to SetsuntaMew and orsaverba for encouraging me while writing!
> 
> Also please listen to Danse Bizarre 01 and Make your Move Playback from the Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic ~Up to the Volume on Balbadd~ and Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic ~To the Kingdom of Magic~ OST albums, respectively. They set the mood for the piece!

You never really expect that anything drastically life-changing is going to happen on a Tuesday. It just didn’t happen. See, everybody liked to say that they hated Mondays, but Tuesdays were definitively the worst fucking day of any week, because you didn’t get anything done on a Tuesday. Sure, you might _think_ that you got things done, but in spite of any objective measures of performance, you didn’t. Come Wednesday, there was two fucking days’ worth of work to be done anyway. Tuesdays also seemed to have the mystical and unique property of dragging out far longer than any other period of twenty-four hours would. Tuesdays were at least _twice_ as long as any other day of the week.  It was like some kinda Twilight Zone shit.

And on top of all that, Judal missed the fucking subway. Pulled out of the station _just_ as his boots hit the bottom stair, and all he could do was watch in outrage and dismay. Just his fucking luck. Venting his frustration by kicking the white-tiled wall felt good at first, but it then it started to _hurt_ afterward, and there was nothing but various iterations and intonations of “fuck” running through his head.

The smart thing to do would be to wait for the next subway. Judal, however, was a hell of a lot more impatient than he was smart. Besides, hanging around the station made him antsy. He couldn’t stand to be there for much longer than he needed to. So, he simply resolved to walk. Muttering curses under his breath, he climbed the stairs up to the street level. A droplet splashed onto his cheek as he emerged onto the sidewalk, and he searched the gray sky overhead, like he could somehow pick out a single cloud among them all to blame for the offending droplet. He huffed and flipped up the hood of his poncho, the lining around the edge of its hood a stripe of rainbow against the gray.

You know, as often as he’d been coming to this part of the city, he should probably retain some information that could help him figure out where the fuck he was by now, but that was not the case. With a frustrated sigh, he slipped his smart phone out of his back pocket.

A pair of pointed black ears popped up at the bottom edge of the screen. Two beady black eyes peeked over the edge and spied Judal. Then, the weird, but cute little imp-cat character thing sprung up onto the display, bouncing on her feet. She flashed Judal a sly grin, and her voice rang out of the speaker before Judal could think to turn the volume down. “Nyahaha! _Hā luō_ , Ju-”

“Shut up already,” Judal hissed, tapping furiously to get through her welcome message. Mǎnǎo was lucky that she was too cute to uninstall; otherwise, Judal would be on the market for a new virtual assistant already. Mǎnǎo stuck her pink button nose in the air and disappeared behind an app window- only for her icon to pop up a moment later at the top of the loading map. A chat bubble appeared beside her head, and the icon’s mouth moved as the _Hànzi_ scrolled across the space.   < _Your estimated travel time to Home is 48 minutes._ >

“That’s almost an hour!” he complained. “C’mon, is it seriously _that_ far?”

< _Should I call a taxi?_ >

“Ugh. Don’t bother. Can’t afford that shit.”

Grumbling to no one in particular, he jammed a pair of wireless headphones in his ears just to drown out the sounds of the bustling city. He hopped from puddle to puddle while walking, as his assistant fed him directions in a voice that was somehow just as charming as it was grating. The rain seemed to make the neon signs bleed their blues and purples and bubblegum pinks into the air, and it almost looked like magic.

 _Almost_.

Judal could feel the hum of magic beneath his feet. Kind of like when you stood on a grate and you could feel roar of the subway below the street level, in a way. It was a constant part of the city, still very much _there_ no matter how many years you had to be habituated to it.

In Chinatown, the magic flowing through the earth had its own unique feel to it, shaped by generations of immigrants. See, magic wasn’t _just_ the raw energy flowing through the Earth, or act of slinging spells and shit, and any by-the-books wizard could tell you that. Magic was all in traditions. Even before the Awakening, people had brought their Oriental brand of magic and mysticism with them when they left China for New York. Hell, they were even pretty popular before the Awakening! What white girl in her late twenties _hadn’t_ turned to meditation and rearranging the furniture in her house to “center” herself? The magic of the five elements, _wǔ xíng_ , the geomancy of _fēngshuǐ_ , and the concept of _qì_ survived in one form or another, pulled out of the cultural context and commoditized for the Western world. These days, it was every bit as authentic as the food you could get in any one of thousands of Chinese-American Restaurant Association locations. The “Chinese” part was more like a gimmick than anything else.

Some of the older _wujen_ Judal had met while he’d been living here turned up their nose at the way their practice and their culture was represented in today’s world. There was something to be said for keeping a culture pure and firmly rooted in its traditions, probably, but if you asked Judal, that was a pretty quick way to snuff out the practice. Besides, all this gimmicky shit was the only connection Judal _had_ to his homeland. Those wrinkly old farts had their memories of their homeland to cling to. Judal didn’t have as much. He had probably been born there, and sometimes, he vaguely recalled flashes of things that didn’t exist in the city, but he was more of an American than anything else.Not that he felt like he belonged here, either.

But he was spacing out again. He had to stop doing that. It was going to cost him one day, if it hadn’t already. He’ll probably stroll right into the middle of a fire fight like a fucking idiot one day. Or, if not getting himself shot, maybe he’ll miss that one, drastically life-changing moment. You know, the kind that didn’t happen on an ordinary day like a Tuesday.

He took stock of where he’d ended up while his thoughts and his feet were wandering in two very different directions. The intersection looked just like any other in Chinatown. On the northwest corner, a souvenir shop wrapped around the sides of a residential building, displaying shirts and handbags and talismans that were probably only magical if you were dumb enough to believe what the vendor told you. The business across from it, on the northeast corner, was a tourism office. The tourism office’s sign was probably the only one on the street written exclusively in English.

Judal melded himself back into the stream of foot traffic to crossing over to the southeast corner of the intersection. He hopped up onto the sidewalk, pausing to read the affixed street signs. Little Hong Kong and _Bǎi Yě_ street. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and shut off the navigation. He knew how to get back to the apartment from here.

The restaurant was just sitting there, waiting for him to notice it. It wasn’t that pretty a place. At least, you wouldn’t think so in the first time that you laid eyes on it- or even the second time, when you scolded yourself for judging too quickly and gave it another look. Red paint peeled off the storefront’s pagoda-style facade, and the gold lettering on the panels advertised authentic chicken and beef, takeout, delivery, and all that. Plastic cups and scraps of paper that had been dropped on the sidewalk had been swept up against the side of the building. Judal got the impression that the whole property had been left on the street to be collected next Monday morning.

Possessed by his curiosity, Judal stepped out of the flow of people to scope out the place.  The windows were covered in a dark plastic, and on the door, there was a notice from the CA-RA, listing realtor information first in Chinese, then in English underneath the announcement of foreclosure. The association, in lieu of a bank, had repossessed the property from the owner they were renting it out to. That wasn’t too unusual. Banks and laws didn’t really have a place in Chinatown.

Judal rattled the door handle. Locked. That wasn’t too surprising, either. Well, he wasn’t about to let something as easily bypassed as a locked door stop him from satiating his curiosity. Judal pressed his fingers against the tarp that covered the window, and was met nothing but the crinkle of the plastic. The glass had already been shattered. Some kid had probably gotten the same idea as he did. Judal picked at the tape affixing the lower corner of the tarp to the window and finally tore it open just enough that he could worm his way inside.

Glass crunched beneath his rubber boots as he jumped down into the restaurant. It was… Well, it was dark. He should have expected that. It also reeked of mildew and that vaguely floral, otherworldly smell characteristic of opiate smoke. Judal probably should’ve expected that, too. What better place than an abandoned Chinese restaurant to get high as shit on bliss?

“This is private property. Judal, you should probably go before someone calls the police.”

Judal nearly jumped right out of his fucking skin. He turned on his heel, hands up in front of him and a defense springing to the tip of his tongue. Only, there was no one behind him. It took Judal another moment before he figured out where the voice had come from.

“Shit, Mǎnǎo,” Judal groaned, pulling his phone out of his pocket so he could glare at her. “You scared the shit out of me! Ugh. Turn on the fucking flashlight.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she responded, as if it somehow inconvenienced her. “You could at least be polite about it.” Judal turned as the light flickered on, casting a bright white beam onto a pile of debris and a floor covered in plaster dust. Judal’s boots left distinct footprints as he stepped forward into the mess. He angled the flashlight upward, noting the gaping hole and the brown stains that blotched what remained of the ceiling.

Judal snapped a picture.

The restaurant was small- it could probably make room for five or six tables and booths at most. The bathroom was hardly bigger than the broom closet. The pipes were busted, too, judging by the disgusting color of the water in the toilet. The kitchen was a goddamn nightmare. It was disgusting, grungy, and totally broken down. The appliances looked like they were barely held together. And Judal was pretty sure that the lump over in the corner was a dead rat or something. Fighting back the bile in his throat, Judal took pictures of _everything._ He wasn’t going to have a cool adventure in an abandoned building without sharing it, after all.

He headed back to the storefront, clearing a space on the floor and plunking down cross-legged. He set his phone in his lap and pulled open a messaging app. The _Pīnyīn_ he entered transformed into full phrases written in _Hànzi_ rapidly as he sent a flurry of texts. He had only a moment before he was inundated with replies. Laughing at the obvious excitement, Judal opted to call instead of continuing the conversation over text.

Kougyoku picked up almost immediately after the first ring. “ _Judal!_ ” He winced. He loved Kougyoku and all, but the pitch of her voice could jack right up past the range of human hearing when she was all worked up about something. He stuck a finger into one ear, just to check if she’d managed to rupture his eardrum or something.

“ _Wèi_ , ‘Gyoku,” he greeted. “You’re out of class, right?”

“Class ended a couple minutes ago!” she chirped in response. “The bus isn’t coming for another forty minutes. Where are you?”

“Weird abandoned restaurant on Mott and Bayard. It’s a total mess in here. Like, the ceiling is on the floor.” He flipped to the outward-facing camera, showing Kougyoku the rubble on the floor. “There’s a dead rat in the kitchen.”

“ _Ew,_ Judal! You didn’t send me a picture of it, did you?” she whined at him, her eyes leaving the camera and flicking downward as she scrolled through her pictures.

“Hm. I might have. I don’t remember,” he replied with an impish grin.

“Is- is that the rat? _Judal,_ why would you send me that! Grooooooss!” she complained, drawing the syllable out as she screwed up her nose. “So! Do you think this is the place?”

“The place?” Judal repeated, arching a brow- and then he promptly switched the camera back to face him and repeated the gesture so that she could actually _see_ him arching a brow at her.

Kougyoku did _that_ smile, that one smile that meant that she definitely knew your secret. “You know! For your tattoo studio.”

“Hah? What are you talking about, old hag? Have the fumes from your hairspray gone to your head? When did I say anything about a tattoo studio?”

“I don’t use that much hairspray, you jerk!” Kougyoku puffed her cheeks. “Look, you said that you didn’t want to take money from Kouen anymore, didn’t you? You should open up a studio! Your tattoos are really good, Judal. I bet people would pay a lot of money to get them.”

She held up her arm. The two koi fish were small, but beautifully colored and intricately detailed. The koi fish swam in lazy, but graceful circles around her wrist, silently mapping over the hollow of her wrist an nipping at a mole as if it were a speck of fish food. As Judal watched, the two koi met at the underside of her wrist, mouth-to-mouth like they were kissing. One of them made a rapid turn and wiggled off, disappearing behind her hand.

 _He_ did that. It was one of his first. It had been years ago and his memory was shitty, but he still recalled taping one of his drawings to her wrist and using it as a stencil, so he wouldn’t mess up the design while he was at work. Except it didn’t really work out all that well. He kind of ruined the paper. He had failed to account for the ink bleeding through. He had to freehand most of it, and you could tell if you paid too close attention to the finer details on either fish. He could spot their flaws even now; the scales weren’t quite perfect and one of them had asymmetrical eyes. Nevertheless, Kougyoku’s tattoo still filled him with a sense of pride. He’d come so far since then!

“You know how many people have come up to me and asked me where I got this? I’ve practically got a line of customers already set up for you!” she insisted, while he was busy having his sentimental moment.

Judal snapped out of his reverie, only to roll his eyes. “So now you’re my publicist? Gee, thanks. Didn’t really ask for one,” he deadpanned.

Kougyoku pressed her glossy, candy apple-red lips into a thin line. “Indulge me a little, at least,” she continued regardless. “If this was the place, tell me what it would look like!”

Judal sighed. This was a dumb exercise. He wasn’t going to be opening a tattoo studio anytime soon. He didn’t have that kind of money. He was crashing on someone else’s couch, for fuck’s sake! But if it would get her to shut up about her dumb idea, then Judal could probably indulge her like she asked. He pushed himself to his feet, idly combing his fingers through his braid as he panned the camera around the restaurant’s interior.

“I’d clean it up, obviously. Fix the big fucking hole in the ceiling, fix the gross bathroom, get the kitchen cleared out. It’s gonna be painted red, for good luck. And I’ll put my art up on the walls, so people will know what they’re paying for.”

“And…?” Kougyoku prompted, leaning her cheek against her palm.

Judal turned slowly, pointed the camera toward the door. “I’ll have a desk up front. Y’know, with a cash register. And a maneki-neko! He’ll wave at the customers- y’know, like they do- and sometimes blink at them or some shit, but only when no one else is looking so they think they’re going crazy or something.” He grinned as he heard Kougyoku’s laugh, but didn’t look back down at the screen. Instead, his eyes roved over the shop’s interior, imagining what it _could_ be.

In his mind’s eye, he pictured the debris on the floor rising up and fitting themselves neatly back into the ceiling, the walls changing from a gross, dingy gray to a bright red. He imagined the front desk and the cheeky little maneki-neko. He imagined a divider in the front, maybe something like a wooden arch, separating comfortable seating from where he did his work. In the back, his art would decorate the walls, and he’d have all his inks and needles where people could see them when they came back, so they could really get a sense of what he did. There was probably enough room in the shop that he could even have others working alongside him, but honestly, he couldn’t imagine working with anyone else. No one else was capable of inking magic straight into someone’s body, like he could.

“And then, I want to put a couple of couches or something here, maybe a coffee table? Yeah, a coffee table! People could put their feet up and shit like that. Maybe I’ll even print out a couple of art books. Like, pages full of drawings that people can point to and say, ‘gimme something like that!’”

Judal went on, making himself giddy with his grand ideas for the space. And by the time he realized what a rush talking about his very own tattoo studio gave him, Kougyoku already had the biggest, smuggest fucking grin on her face.

“Gotcha!” she sang, playfully pointing at the camera. “Admit it! You really do want your own place. Anyway, the bus is coming, so I have to go. Talk to you later, Ju!”

Her image was gone before Judal could even say goodbye. He closed his mouth and took a look around the foreclosed restaurant once more. His own place. He’d dreamed of having his own studio to work out of. It was part of his vision for a totally independent lifestyle, where he didn’t have to rely on anyone else for his income or his living arrangements. He could have his own business, set his own hours, decide on his own clients, determine his own pay. Yeah, that was the dream!

“Nya, Judal! I’m starting to feel _really_ tired. Your battery’s at fifteen percent. Maybe we should go home?”

Judal blinked. “Shit, yeah. You’re probably right. How far is it from home?”

“Ten minutes, if you take this route. If you hurry, maybe I won’t die!” Mǎnǎo chimed hopefully, pulling up a map of the neighborhood and charting his course in green.

“Got it.” He shoved his phone back into the pocket of his shorts and stepped over a chunk of plaster. He paused at the window, glancing back at the mess of a restaurant. You could call it a diamond in the rough, but it wasn’t quite there yet. Maybe more like a piece of charcoal in the rough that _could_ become a diamond.

Slowly, a grin curled the corners of his lips upward. Then, gripping the window frame with one hand, he climbed up onto the sill and ducked back under the tarp. His boots sent up a spray of rainwater as he jumped down onto the sidewalk; an ork gave him a sneer for that, but he ignored it in favor of checking out the realtor information one more time.

“Yeah,” he said to no one in particular. “This is the place.”

...

Coffee Arabica was really something special. The café billed itself as the best place in Queens to get a cup of authentic Turkish coffee- even though the owner was Iranian. It boasted good coffee made from hand-ground beans imported from all over the world, and a warm, friendly atmosphere. It was the kind of place where you could just sit with a cup of the house Arabica blend, chat with other patrons or the staff for hours, and not have to worry about being rushed out the door.

You could tell that Sinbad was passionate about the business. He’d talk forever about the importance of a cup of coffee if you’d let him. “Everyone has their own way of making coffee. The Turks, the Armenians, the Lebanese, the Bulgarians, the Italians,” he’d say with a stupid, lopsided grin on his face. And whether or not the Turks, the Armenians, the Lebanese, the Bulgarians, or the Italians agreed with one another about preparation methods or ingredients or whatever, they could all sit down together and agree on one, absolute truth- that _anything_ was better than “coffee” from an American chain. Starbucks dominated the market in wealthier zip codes with its burnt grounds, and Dunkin’ Donuts’ flavorless, watery coffee was encroaching upon Queens (which Sinbad took as a personal challenge).

But Judal hated coffee, so he showed up to Coffee Arabica with a peach jelly bubble tea in hand. He’d probably done it ten thousand times by now, but that didn’t stop Sinbad from glaring at him over the top edge of his newspaper while he was coming in. You’d think he’d brought in a Dunkaccino or something.

“We have a rule. No outside drinks allowed,” the idiot called out, instead of saying ‘hello’ like a normal person would.

Judal rolled his eyes. “That’s funny, ‘cause I don’t think you guys do rum here, either,” he shot back.

“That was one time!”

A loud, whooping laugh from behind the counter shut Sinbad up pretty quickly. Sharrkan leaned forward over the countertop to spy his boss around the column obstructing his view.  “Sorry, boss, but that’s bullshit!” the barista called out.

Yamuraiha was in the middle of taking an order, but spared a moment to give her co-worker a scolding look. “ _Sharrkan!_ ”

Pipsqueak- er, Pisti- wove her way in between the other two baristas with a jug of milk in one hand and a step ladder in the other. She plunked her ladder down at the milk steamer and scaled it quickly, raising her voice over the hissing, spitting machinery as she operated it. “Boss, didn’t you have a bottle of scotch in here on Tuesday?”

Sinbad huffed and made a show of folding up his paper. Drama queen. “I don’t pay you people to slander my good name.”

“That’s okay. We’ll do it for free!” Pisti chirped back at him.

While Sinbad scolded his employees, Judal slung his backpack off his shoulder and dropped it into a chair. He made himself at home in his favorite arm chair, kicking his slip-ons off his feet and digging his heels into the cushion. “Any interesting news?” he asked, sucking a glob of peach pulp up through his straw.

Sinbad propped up an elbow on the arm of the couch and leaned his head against his hand. “Nothing you’d find interesting. Unless, by some miracle, you’ve finally taken an interest in someone other than yourself.”

“That doesn’t really sound like me, does it?” Judal finished off the last of his bubble tea and tossed the cup into the garbage receptacle a couple feet away from him. Then, he pulled his backpack into his lap and unzipped it, withdrawing a clear, plastic case. “Is your guy ready? I wanna get this session done quick. I’ve got places to be.”

Sinbad nodded and waved one of the busboys over. Even after spending a couple years around Coffee Arabica, Judal still had trouble remembering the redhead’s name. It started with an S, he knew that. Star… Spar… Spartan… Well, whatever. The guy didn’t seem to mind if Judal called him by some other nickname. Or, if he did mind, he didn’t say so. Not that he said much of anything, really.

Red was silent as he sat on the chair and rolled his sleeve up to his elbow. Judal pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and doused a pad of gauze with rubbing alcohol. The design was almost completed. To Judal, it looked kind of like the spokes of a really old-fashioned wheel, but apparently it meant Jesus Christ or something. He couldn’t see it. Whatever the design meant, it was important enough to Red here that he wanted to get it permanently inked onto his body. Judal swabbed it down, then re-purposed the gauze to disinfect his needle.

Red looked pretty nervous. Judal didn’t really blame him. Motorized tattoo guns aren't that threatening. Anyone with a steady hand could use one of those things, and the needles were so thin that you’d hardly feel them when they punctured your skin. The whole process was quick and relatively painless. But Judal didn’t use one of those. His tool was hardly anything more than a sewing needle fixed onto a thin, bamboo rod. His process was long and intensive and _painful_ by comparison, but totally worth it in the end. He doubted any modern tattoo studio could do the things he was capable of, after all.

Judal shook a bottle of black ink and filled a cup no bigger than a thimble with only a few drops of the stuff. “You ready?” he asked the busboy, dipping his needle into the ink. After a nod of confirmation, Judal framed the design between his thumb and forefinger, stretching the skin, and stuck his needle in just beneath the top layer- not deep enough for the color to bleed.

The design was fairly small, but it was tedious work to give it a clean, uniform color. He filled the design in sections, moving up and down columns and retrieving more ink as needed. Once one pass was completed, he swept a fresh pad of gauze over the design to clean up the excess ink, then started over again. The design went from a blank outline to an array of black dots, the spaces between one dot and the next growing progressively tighter with each pass he made with his needle. He worked quickly, one shallow jab after another, occasionally pausing to shake out a cramp in his hand.

Judal didn’t like to talk while he was at work. His focus narrowed in on the design and the process, to the point of total exclusion of the café around him. Sinbad’s voice and the nervous, unsteady breaths of his client faded into the background. He was vaguely aware of Red’s tension, but only because trying to puncture a tense forearm felt like jamming his needle straight into a brick or something.

It took maybe an hour to finish filling in the design. Then came the good part. Judal cleaned up first, carefully washing and rinsing until there was nothing but the tattoo and raised, reddened skin left. He took a moment to appraise his work. Clean lines, no obvious gaps. Perfect. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and pulled one of the latex gloves off with his teeth, and the other one left smudges of ink on his hand as he rolled it down. He wadded them in a ball and tossed them into his tool case to deal with later.

“You want this to be a meditation thing, yeah?” Judal asked as he placed his fingertips on the tattoo.

Busboy nodded. “Something that will sharpen the mind,” he said softly, wiping at his sweaty forehead with his free hand. Poor guy must not be all that fond of needles. Judal bit his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

“Got it. Mental clarity, coming right up!”

Judal closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath and honed himself. Maybe it was a weird analogy, but drawing mana was a lot like drinking bubble tea. He was both the force that sucked the mana up from its bank deep within the earth, and he was the “straw” that channeled the raw, magical energy. The magic here in New Arabia had a different kind of feel to it than it did in his neighborhood; it made his veins prickle like there was fire and lightning coursing through him. But it came when he called it to him, flooding his body and pooling at the tips of his fingers.

It’d be cool if there was some lightshow like there was in the movies, like magic sparks flying or flames shooting from his fingers or something. Sadly, there were no pyrotechnics and particle effects involved with real magic. Not to a mundane eye, anyway. But, to someone Awakened, like himself, his mind’s eye provided a visualization for something that couldn’t be seen. Judal witnessed the enchantment as if it were a transfer of color. Color bled from his fingertips and effused into the tattoo, filling the black lines with a crimson so bright that it almost glowed.

Judal let the magic flow out of him and opened his eyes. “There! A focus,” he said proudly, casting a grin Sinbad’s way. It was nice to know that even after years of creating foci for Sinbad and his close associates, the idiot was still amazed with his handiwork.

Sinbad shook off his awe and laughed. “Excellent work! Just as I’d expect from you. You’ve got quite a rare gift, Judal,” he said with a glimmer in his eye. “Do you like it, Spartos?”

 _Spartos,_ that was his name! It was nice to know, but Judal sincerely doubted that he was going to remember it. For some reason, it just wouldn’t stick in his head. Anyway, Spartos relaxed his arm, tilting his head to the side and viewing the design from another angle. “It’s beautiful. Thank you very much.” He paused, tracing the shape of the spokes. “How do I use it?”

Judal made a face. He hated the explanation part. Someone who studied magic extensively could probably give specific details like time it would take to become acclimated to the magic, how often it could be used, what the duration of its effects were upon activation. Judal was the kind of person who _felt_ the magic.

“It’s… Well, you kinda have to bond with it first,” he explained, perhaps a bit awkwardly. He wrapped a lock of his hair around his fingers. “Get to know the magic. But you’re a meditate-y kind of guy, so you’ll probably figure it out pretty quickly. Oh, and wash it once a day, put some antibacterial lotion on it, and you probably won’t die of infection. If you do, it’s totally not my fault though. Blame Sinbad.”

“ _Hey_!”

Spartos nodded in understanding. “Thank you again. Is it alright to roll my sleeve down?”

Judal scoffed. “No way! That looks lame.” He snatched Spartos’s other arm and popped the button on the cuff, neatly rolling the other sleeve up to just below his elbow. He adjusted the sleeve so that it looked neat, then gave the busboy a smack on the shoulder. “There! See, now you kinda look sexy. I’d bang you, anyway. People are way more into the rolled up sleeves, y’know?”

Judal laughed as Spartos flushed nearly as red as his hair. The poor thing scurried off before Judal could tease him any further, quietly excusing himself and disappearing into the employee break room. Sinbad shook his head, but still chuckled in spite of himself.

“I wish you wouldn’t harass my employees,” Sinbad said, folding his hands in his lap. “Now… Shall we talk payment?”

Judal pulled himself out of his chair and disposed of the used needle and the dirty gloves, keeping his back to Sinbad. His tension was a little obvious, even if he tried to be subtle about it. “About that… Listen, I know we’ve got this thing going on, but I can’t take a handout this time. I’m gonna need money. Like, actual money. Hard cash, or a preloaded credstick, or something like that.”

He didn’t need to look at Sinbad’s face to know what kind of expression he was making. Narrow eyes, frowning slightly. He probably didn’t like where this was going. Judal sucked in a breath and turned to face him. “Lemme explain. Sinbad, I wanna do this for real. I can’t keep giving people tattoos in a fucking coffee shop if I’m seriously gonna make a living off it. I need a place where I can work. A place of my own. And if I’m gonna get my start, I’m gonna need money.”

Sinbad eyed him carefully. That idiot… Judal never knew what he was thinking. Obviously, he wasn’t all that welcome to the idea, but how was he going to spin it?  “Judal… You know that I want to help you, but starting a business is expensive. Do you even know the first thing about running one?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Judal cut him off. “It’s nothing like running a place like this, so it’s not like _you_ know, either. I know you have the money for it. You’re getting pretty rich off your side deals, right?”  

“We shouldn’t be having a conversation out in the open like this.”

“Quit dodging, Sinbad! C’mon, what I’ve given you is totally invaluable. What, you think I don’t know what a focus is worth? I’m not that stupid. You can’t take advantage of me.”

Sinbad sighed and combed his hand through his hair. Finally, he pulled himself to his feet and motioned for Judal to come with him. He lead Judal out to the back of the establishment, to the alleyway behind it. The alleyway, out of view of the street, was where Sinbad kept his motorcycle, parked just a couple feet away from the dumpster. Old cigarette butts and broken glass bottles had piled up in the lot since Sinbad had first taken over the building.

“How much do you need?” Sinbad asked, pulling a smoke and a lighter out of his pocket. The lighter flickered to life as he struck the wheel, and a thin tendril of smoke spiraled through the air while the end of the cigarette glowed red.

“Just enough for the down payment and the first couple months, I guess,” Judal answered, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.

Sinbad raised a brow. “You already found a place? Where?” Judal fished in his pocket for his phone and quickly messaged the photos he’d taken earlier to Sinbad, then gestured with a simple nod. Sinbad pulled out his own phone and frowned, thumb flicking across the OLED screen as he scrolled through the pictures. Mǎnǎo, in the meantime, was making faces at Judal. He resisted the urge to make a face back at her. “Not bad... Needs cleanup and repairs. Looks a little small, though. How much is the rent?”

“I found the place a couple days ago. Haven’t talked to the realtor yet. I was gonna wait until after I figured out where the money’s gonna come from.” Judal’s eyes were locked on his phone. Mǎnǎo had indicated toward a text he’d missed. Judal skimmed the content, then sent out a quick reply and slipped his phone into the back pocket of his shorts. He returned his gaze to Sinbad. “Are you gonna give me the money?”

Sinbad made a face. That was a phrase that he hated more than anything. “What are you going to do about a license? You’re going to need a business license, and I’m sure there’s a specific one required for a tattoo studio, too. And last I checked, you don’t have a system identification number. Can’t get a license without one.”

“Shit.” Judal kicked a cigarette butt across the pavement, a scowl on his face. “Well, what about you? You don’t have a SIN, do you?”

“Illegal license. I can probably fix you up with the same.” Sinbad blew out a stream of smoke. “Alright. I’ll cover the down payment and the first two months, and I’ll get you the licenses, but that’s the most I can do for you. I’m not made of money, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it.” Judal snatched the cigarette from Sinbad’s fingers and took a drag himself. The smoke seemed to snake from his lips, taking on the shape of a long, thin Eastern dragon with the help of a little magic. Judal smirked and blew the dragon in Sinbad’s direction.

“Show-off,” Sinbad accused, watching with half-lidded eyes. He took the cigarette back, and for a moment, tension hung in the air. Finally, Sinbad dropped the cigarette and ground it into the asphalt with the toe of his shoe. “I’ve been thinking about quitting. Boyfriend doesn’t like the taste. Or that it’s _haram._ ”

“Ooh. It’s getting that serious?” Judal asked teasingly. “You’re even giving up your hedonistic ways. You’re not gonna settle down, are you, old man?”

“I’m not old!”

“Heh. Let me know how the whipped life suits you! Anyway, I’ve gotta get going. Hakuryuu’s expecting me.” Judal gave a casual salute in farewell, then pushed himself off the wall and headed back toward the door.

“Oh, and _I’m_ the one that’s whipped!” Sinbad shouted as Judal slipped inside.

Snickering softly to himself, Judal locked the back door behind him. “See you guys later!” he called out to the staff as he shoved his tools back into his backpack and zipped it up. He left to a chorus of goodbyes- and one final “thanks” from…

 _Fuck._ He’d already forgotten the guy’s name!

...

Actually, it would be nice if he had that kind of relationship with Hakuryuu. Not that Judal wanted to be bossed around and nagged by Hakuryuu or anything like that, but lately, he’d been thinking about the possibility of being in a serious relationship with Hakuryuu. They already lived together, so technically, they were already further along than Sinbad and his latest partner. They ate their meals together, they watched pirated movies together, and as often as he was available, Judal would walk Hakuryuu home from work. It was almost like they really were a couple.

He was probably the only one that saw it that way.

Judal was at the flowershop as soon as he could be. It was just after closing time, and the door had already been locked, though the lights were on and he could see Hakuryuu cleaning up inside. Judal didn’t know how he managed to be so fucking pretty with just a stupid green apron and a lame white button down with the sleeves rolled up and the first button popped like the thought he was _so cool_ and his stupidly silky, blue-black hair pulled back in a sloppy bun and his dumb eyes tinted two mismatched but equally gorgeous shades of purple in the dying light of the day-

Judal thunked his forehead against the shop window. This was the worst. He liked it better when he had men pining after him instead. He sucked in a breath, then finally knocked on the pane of glass to get Hakuryuu’s attention. His face lit up when Hakuryuu gave him a passing glance. He waved eagerly and help up a brown paper bag. Hakuryuu had asked him to stop by a local market for a couple things before he came.

Hakuryuu nodded curtly and looked away. Judal could see his (pretty) lips move; he was probably talking to his boss or something. Judal pushed himself away from the window and briefly checked his reflection, while he waited for Hakuryuu to come and unlock the door.

He didn’t even wait for the invitation to enter. “I got the rice and your gross vegetables,” Judal proudly announced, skirting around Hakuryuu the moment he opened the door and dropping the paper bag down on the nearest display table.

Hakuryuu lunged to catch a potted plant before it could fall over and shot Judal a scathing glare. “Can you put it down _without_ damaging my plants?” he deadpanned. Carefully, he righted the pot and tweaked the flowers until it looked perfect again. It was almost surprising, how he could handle such a delicate-looking flower even with his prosthetic. Judal would stop and admire how tender his touch was with unfeeling metal and plastic at the end of his arm, except then he would start imagining how tender his touch might be on his skin, and it’d all go downhill after that.  He forced himself to look away and think of something deliberately not sexy. Like globs of congealed _stuff_ in reheated egg drop soup. Actually, reheated egg drop soup was pretty gross on its own.

Hakuryuu wasn’t done talking. “I heard sloshing. I didn’t ask you to buy anything that would slosh. Judal, what did you buy?”

Judal pulled his braid over his shoulder, combing his fingers through the locks. “Nothing, nothing! Just, y’know,  a little something to drink. To go with dinner.”

Hakuryuu frowned and pulled one of two quart-sized plastic containers out of the bag. He’d never seen the reddish liquid before. “What is it…?”

Judal grinned. “Rice wine! It’s homemade. See, this neighborhood is great. You can find the coolest shit if you know who to ask, y’know.”

“Rice wine,” Hakuryuu repeated. “Is this even legal?”

“Whether it’s legal or not doesn’t matter, right? It’s the taste that’s important! I have it on good authority that this is the best rice wine on the block!”

Hakuryuu gave him a look and delicately placed the quart back in the bag among the plastic-wrapped vegetables and the rice. “Honestly, what am I going to do with you…” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Hakuryuu!” a third voice called from the back room. “Can you get this hideous thing out of here? I don’t want it stinking up my cooler.”

Hakuryuu pulled the knot at the back of his apron loose and folded it over his arm. “Judal, do you think you could give me a hand?” he asked.

Judal laced his fingers behind his head and followed Hakuryuu into the back room. “Hey Ziggy,” he said to Hakuryuu’s boss.

“Zagan,” he automatically corrected. What a blond-haired, blue-eyed guy like Zagan was doing setting up shop in a place like Chinatown was totally beyond Judal. Maybe he only sold to white hipsters; Judal didn’t know anyone that would buy his overpriced, genetically engineered flowers. Zagan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and returned his attention to a spreadsheet. “Just get that thing out of my cooler. I swear it’s been staring at me…”

“Yes, yes. Thank you for allowing me to keep it here,” Hakuryuu said politely.

“Keep _what?_ ” Judal asked.

Zagan’s lips lifted in a disgusted sneer. He pointed to the cooler. “ _That._ ”

Behind the glass door of the cooler, given its own space amongst completed flower arrangements and silk-wrapped bouquets, a whole fish gaped back at them, its eyes bulging slightly from its head. It looked fresh enough that Judal was surprised that it wasn’t still breathing.

“You bought a _fish_?” Judal asked, fingers and nose pressing up against the glass.

“W-well, the price was reasonably low, and I haven’t cooked with real fish in a long time, so I thought I might cook it for dinner tonight.”

“The next time you get an impulse to cook your boyfriend some fish, just do me a favor and keep it out of my shop.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend!”

Judal glanced back over his shoulder in time to catch the deep shade of red on Hakuryuu’s face. Laughing, he leaned in to prod at Hakuryuu’s cheek. “You wanted to cook fish for me? That’s so cute, Ha-ku-ryuu~!” he said, drawing out his name in a singsong tone.

Hakuryuu scowled and slapped his hand away. “Shut up and help me get it out of here!”

…

Judal couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten fish. Fresh meats were pretty pricey and difficult to come buy in a low-income neighborhood like Chinatown. It was fine if you liked soy- you could do just about anything with soy if you had the right stuff to flavor it with- but Judal was getting pretty tired of tofu and miso and cup ramen.

They didn’t have any nice glasses to serve the rice wine in. Cheap plastic tumblers would have to do. Judal poured the wine while Hakuryuu dished the breaded and baked fish, white rice, and mushrooms onto both their plates. Judal feigned gagging.

“You can eat one mushroom, Judal,” Hakuryuu said with a frown.

“Impossible. I’ll definitely die if I do that.” He plunked down in one of the folding chairs and scooted it up to the kitchen table. Hidden under a decent enough tablecloth, you could almost forget that it was really just a cheap card table.

Hakuryuu intended to buy nicer furniture. That’s what he said, anyway. He talked about having a real kitchen table and chairs that didn’t fold up, swapping out the secondhand couch and the broken mattress, that sort of thing.

Oh, and the _kitchen_ . Hakuryuu must’ve told him ten thousand times what his dream kitchen would look like. It’d definitely be large, for one thing. It would have fancy brushed chrome appliances, a deep, double-basin farmhouse sink, enough counter space for him to cook a proper meal, and a kitchen table with plenty of space to accommodate for any number of dishes. Obviously, that vision of his was totally unrealistic for his small apartment, though Judal didn’t doubt that Hakuryuu would gladly sacrifice the living area for more kitchen space- in spite the fact that Judal was currently, well, _living_ in the living area.

Come to think of it, maybe that was why Hakuryuu kept telling him that he should get his own apartment.

“Hey.”

Judal’s stay was supposed to be temporary. For him, it was always like that. He’d stayed with Sinbad only until he was old enough to get a place on his own. Then, he’d bounced from one shitty apartment to the next- although, calling them “apartments” was probably too generous. Most of them were unbelievably cramped, filthy, infested with bugs and vermin, an electrical fire waiting to happen.

“Judal...”

Hakuryuu had his complaints about this place- that the neighbors were too nosy, that the view from the window was terrible, that the kitchen was too small and its appliances were outdated, that there was no space for a washing machine- but Judal genuinely liked it here. Maybe once he got his business up and running and generated a steady income, he could pay rent, or help with the bills, or pay for furniture and groceries, or _something._

Hakuryuu poked the tip of his nose with a chopstick. Judal blinked. “You were spacing out,” he said gently.

“Oh.” Judal flushed and hid his face in his tumbler as he took a sip of wine. “I guess... Were you saying something?”

Hakuryuu shook his head and rested his chin on the back of his wrist. “What were you thinking about? You looked troubled.”

Judal swallowed and set down the plastic cup. He was thinking that he’d like to live together with Hakuryuu as his partner, instead of his friend, or roommate, or whatever the fuck he was to Hakuryuu. But there was no way that he’d be able to say such a thing.

“I’m get to find a steadier job soon, so I won’t have to rely so much on Sinbad and Kouen,” he finally said.

Hakuryuu looked genuinely. “A steady job?” he echoed. “Doing what? Judal, you’re not going back to… you know…”

“What, sex work?” Hakuryuu blushed as he put it bluntly. Judal flashed a cheeky grin and sat back in his chair. He twisted locks of his hair around his fingers. “No, that’s not it. I’m… going to start a business.”

Hakuryuu choked on his laughter, quickly lifting a hand to hide a smile. “A… A business,” he said slowly. “You want to open a business.”

Judal scowled and gave him a half-hearted kick under the table. “Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I’m going to open up a tattoo studio. I could probably get a lot of money, with the kind of tattoos I can do.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve found a place already. Sinbad’s gonna front the initial costs.”

“Ow! Sorry, sorry. It’s just a little hard to see you as the owner of a business,” Hakuryuu said. “You’re hardly responsible, and you don’t like dealing with people…”

“Well, I won’t have to deal with them that much! They’ll understand if I tell them to shut up while I’m at work, right?”

“I suppose.” Hakuryuu fell silent, studying Judal from across the table. Hakuryuu’s cybernetic implant could almost be mistaken for a real eye if you weren’t paying much attention. If you really looked, though, you could see the bright bursts of electricity underneath the pale blue iris, making it glitter like ice in the sunlight. Judal couldn’t help but getting a little lost in his gaze. It was definitely Hakuryuu’s fault for being so stupidly pretty. “You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Judal mumbled. “Actually, I’ve always thought you were…” He stopped himself short. What the fuck was he saying?! “I mean. Giving people tattoos. Yeah, I’ve wanted to do that for a while! It’s bad to just rely totally on Sinbad and Kouen, right? Sinbad doesn’t even pay cash most of the time, and Kouen’s really stingy! I can’t keep making money off them forever!”

Hakuryuu hid a smile behind his hand, fighting the urge to laugh. “Thought I was _what?_ ”

Judal deliberately ignored the question and dug into his meal instead. “I-It’s really delicious! Hakuryuu, you should just eat and forget I said anything!” he managed between mouthfuls of haddock and white rice.

“Judal, if you eat too quickly, you’ll choke-”

Judal cut him off with a loud, hacking cough and grabbed his cup of wine, downing a good quarter of it to wash down a piece of fish that had gone down the wrong way.

“You’re so hopeless…”

…

It happened faster than Judal expected it would have. That was the thing with illegal leases; the owner of the space wanted to get you into the space quickly, so he could make as much money off you as possible. Security deposits and insurance and that shit? Yeah, right! The point was to exploit the shit out of the poor suckers, most of whom barely spoke English and didn’t have a dollar to their names. Well, nobody said that Judal had to like it. He only had to put up with it. Maybe when he had enough money put aside, he could buy the property outright. He still didn’t care for all the bureaucratic red tape of owning a legal business, but at the very least he wouldn’t have to keep forking over as much cash as the owner felt like demanding of him. Within a week, he had the key to the restaurant in his hand.

Gutting the place took all of two days. He’d rented a dumpster and enlisted the help of all two of his friends to knock out the old kitchen appliance and the gross, filthy toilet. They carried the debris from the ceiling out in snow shovels, and though none of the three of them were particularly keen on touching the half-decayed rat, the poor thing was flung in with the trash, too. He was on his own after demo day. Well, mostly on his own; he relied on video tutorials to help figure out how to rewire the lights when he put in the new ceiling and shit like that. Within a month and a half, the place had undergone a complete transformation.

Judal swelled with pride as he swept his gaze over his tattoo studio. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what he envisioned, but it was everything he’d ever wanted. It was the single place in the world that was uniquely his. His own art shifted silently under panes of glass in cool, ornate-looking picture frames that he’d bought with his own money, mounted on walls that he’d painted with his own hands. The furniture was mostly second hand, save for the all-important tattoo bed, but he’d purchased it and staged it himself. Even the complicated stuff, like the wiring and the plumbing, he’d insisted on having a direct hand in. He’d poured every bit of himself into Magic Underground.

The shapes of the furniture and the colors of the walls melted away to blurry, indistinct gradations of gray as Judal peered into the astral space. The walls, the storage in the back part of the room that housed his inks and his needles, even the doorframe were painted his color, as his essence sunk into the cracks and crevices and made itself at home there. Strong emotional attachment to a place or a thing could do that. You left a little piece of yourself with the thing you were attached to. Judal hadn’t had this place very long, but he’d already imparted a piece of his heart here.

Judal grinned. “Okay, Magic Underground! Let’s get to work tomorrow!” he called out to the empty store. He backed out the door and waited for the satisfying click of the lock before he slipped his key card into his back pocket. He glanced over his shoulder at Hakuryuu, breath caught in his throat.

Hakuryuu smiled and held an arm out to him. “You’ll need to rest up tonight. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

Happily, Judal linked his arm with Hakuryuu’s. “There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep! I’m so excited!” he exclaimed. He tugged Hakuryuu’s sleeve, unable to contain himself. “How many people do you think are gonna come tomorrow for the grand opening? Fifty? A hundred?”

“I think that’s a little ambitious,” Hakuryuu responded. He was doing that fond little smirk he did when Judal said something stupid but also somehow kind of cute. The jerk wasn’t even taking him seriously, but Judal couldn’t bring himself to be all that bothered by it this time. He didn’t think _anything_ could kill his mood.

“Just you wait, Hakuryuu! Tomorrow, Magic Underground is officially open!”

In the gloom of the darkened studio, a soft sound- a chirp, or perhaps better characterized as a hiss- broke the empty silence. A creature seemed to form out of the darkness, and shadows clung to its body like it belonged there, reluctant to allow it to scuttle forward out of the corner of the room. Light coming in from the street cast a shiny black carapace in a purplish hue. Its tail was raised in a deadly curve, poised to strike, and a pair of mean-looking eyes glowed a harsh, vivid red.

_“I’ve found you.”_

...


End file.
